When he opened the door, all eyes turned to him. “What do you want from me?” he said. Laurent was sitting awkwardly in his chair in front of the fireplace. “I’d like to know if it’s settled for tomorrow,” said Laurent. “Tomorrow.” He looked around. The room smelled of laundry and cabbage. Madeleine was smoking with her elbows on the table. Denise had a book in front of her. They were full of life. For them, the night would have an end; it would have a dawn. Of this novel, I would like to say, relying solely on the reader’s impression and the nagging questions that remain in the memory: that the author has succeeded in transforming ideas into events; they came out intertwined and enigmatic, as intertwined and intersecting as values. Imagine for a moment that you are in a maze whose walls are made of mirrors: it is difficult to find the way out, but without a window, you will see yourself as you have never seen yourself before. You will surprise yourself, you will discover yourself, you will stand out to you, you will become independent of you, and perhaps you will be reflected in its vision. Something similar happened to John Plumer, the hero of this novel. When he chose to rebuild his life according to his own will, not as fate had designed it for him, he did not ask for your opinion on what your family, your country, or your era should be like. It was as if he wanted to want; he wanted to contribute to creating himself; to experience the scent, honesty, and the novelty of luck. If it were possible to summarize his human adventure in one sentence, I would say: “John Plumer sacrificed the blood of others in his exile!” The paradox may seem strange, and it is precisely among the most beautiful things that can continue to occupy the imagination and give this novel its exceptional beauty.